Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Anne O'Brien
demeanour in the royal household of King Edward the Third and that of the King’s uncle Henry, Duke of Lancaster, with the result that the Earl, despite his occasional mummer’s antics, was a man who could adopt a courtly costume, chivalric manners and diplomatic speech worthy of any European ambassador. The Earl could apply a knife to his meat at a royal banquet with more sophistication than most. Woe betide any man who thought him nothing but a rude and ill-bred lout, even though it was on occasion easy to do so. This man who had dominated my solar with no apology was rarely questioned or thwarted; the years might be silvering his hair and beard but they had still to drain either his resources or his arrogance.
Nor was Harry, with whom I could claim a distant cousinship as well as a more intimate relationship, no more than a border brigand in dusty garb or well-worn armour, driven to exchange blows with any man who would entertain him. Harry was…
I considered it as he closed the solar door softly at my back.
Well, Harry was Harry, a man of some talent and much attraction.
I did not need Harry to inform me of the identity of the man who had landed in England. It took no time at all for me to deduce whose arrival had caused such a stir: there was only one deduction possible. Who else would make landing at Ravenspur, and in doing so fill the Earl’s eyes with bright speculation? It was Henry Bolingbroke, Earl of Hereford, and it had been a return much anticipated in some quarters and feared in others. His father, John of Gaunt, the old Duke of Lancaster, my grandfather’s brother, had been dead since February. Henry would surely return to reclaim his inheritance.
But it would not be an easy return.
When Richard had waged a vicious campaign against those who had had the temerity to shackle his power earlier in his reign, he had connived at the death of some, while banishing his cousin Henry Bolingbroke from English shores for six years as a foresworn traitor. On Lancaster’s death Richard had seen the opportunity to be permanently rid of an enemy. The terms of the banishment had been changed to lifelong exile, and the whole of the Lancaster inheritance had fallen into Richard’s hands for the use of the crown. Cousin Henry had been effectively exiled and disinherited.
And now he was back. I pursed my lips as I considered the repercussions.
All would depend on cousin Henry’s demeanour when he met with the hostile King. The problem of the inheritance and exile could be solved if Richard was prepared to be gracious and forgiving. Or a raging fire could be lit to ravage the country. The thought disturbed me, but not unmercifully. Family disputes had a habit of being settled, if not equably, at least to the satisfaction of both sides, when there was really no alternative but to come to a settlement. Would not the alternative in this case be war?
Harry found me without difficulty, where we always met to enjoy moments of privacy, even in this great castle with its vast array of infrequently used rooms. There would be no eavesdroppers here in the chamber in the Lion Tower, far from the Earl’s private space in the great chamber, with its excellent view of the castle environs and the River Coquet that encircled us in its gentle flow. Yet still Harry took care to hover, head bent, to listen at the door after he closed it, before turning to me, drawing his palms down his cheeks, wincing as they came in contact with the abrasion. In the intervening time, someone had tipped a ewer of water over his head, probably at his own bequest, so that his hair was damply clinging to his neck.
Our reunion, redolent of restored intimacy that had been destroyed in my solar, could not yet be resurrected. I regretted it, but there was an issue which must be addressed.
‘I’ll not apologise for the Earl.’ Harry was invariably honest.
‘There’s no need. He does not rank women highly.’
‘Apart from my mother, whose name remains engraved in gold in his memory.’
‘I will say nothing against her. She must have been a saint.’
Margaret Neville, older than the Earl at the time of their marriage and already a widow. He had not attained his earldom when he had wed Margaret and had valued a well-connected bride. She had carried five children and had been much mourned on her death when I was little more than a babe in arms. I suspected that Margaret held more importance for the Earl than the Blessed Virgin.
‘Never a saint, but a woman of steel-like will.’ Harry smiled briefly.
‘I’m sorry that I never knew her. But that’s not important.’
‘No.’ He studied me from under his emphatic brows, so like his father’s. ‘You know what it is. I think we’ve all been anticipating this day for the last six months.’
‘Of course I know,’ I admitted. ‘It is Bolingbroke.’
‘Yes. Or Lancaster as we must now remember to address him since the title came to him by legitimate right on Gaunt’s death, however much the King might dislike it.’
‘And he has not brought an army with him?’ I mused as I recalled the Earl’s derisory comment.
‘No.’
Harry was watching me. After all, Henry Bolingbroke, the Lancaster heir, being first cousin of my mother, was also claimed in as close a cousinship with me as was King Richard. It might be that family loyalties were about to become uncommonly stretched. Broken even. Glancing up, I knew exactly the content of Harry’s gaze, heavy on mine, the question openly being asked. Where would my own loyalties lie if a breaking did occur? I was too close to both to be objective in my cousinly appraisal. I knew them both. I held an affection for and a family duty to both. Glory of kingship would keep me loyal to Richard, the demands of justice would win my compassion for Henry. I hoped that I would never have to choose between one and the other. It could make for an agonising choosing.
And if a choice had to be made, where would the Percys stand?
I did not enjoy the breath of concern that stirred my thoughts.
‘What will Henry Bolingbroke do?’ I asked, rejecting Harry’s unspoken query, seeing his grimace as he acknowledged that I would, for a little while, keep my own counsel. ‘It can’t be a coincidence that he has chosen the perfect moment to break the terms of his banishment, when Richard is away in Ireland and so in no position to take action against him.’
‘No coincidence at all.’
Harry was now perched sideways on a window ledge, ruminating, digging his fingers into his scalp as if it would aid clarification.
‘Blessed Virgin, Harry! Are you going to tell me anything about Percy plotting?’
‘How can I tell you what I don’t know? I know what you will say,’ he replied shortly. ‘If we don’t know what he wants, is it wise to ride to Lancaster’s side? It all depends what his intentions are. And we won’t know until he tells us. And we won’t know that until we meet up with him.’
‘Whatever he tells you, is it wise to pin your banner to his? After all, Richard sent my cousin Henry into exile for life.’
And so he had, all because of the rebellious affair of the Lords Appellant when Richard’s infatuation with the charms of Robert de Vere had reached its apex, Richard endowing his favourite courtier with patronage, unable or unwilling to see the consequences. Resentment was stirred amongst five great magnates, my cousin Henry, the youngest of them, joining forces with Gloucester, Arundel, Nottingham and Warwick.
Harry was now staring out of the window. Where his attention was, I could not guess.
‘Are you listening to me?’ I asked.
‘I always listen to you, my purveyor of excellent advice.’
I would not respond to his innocent smile as he turned once more to face me, arms folded across his chest in a deceptive attitude of concentration.
‘Would that Richard had listened to excellent advice in his choice of friends,’ I added.
But he had not. The five Lords Appellant were driven to challenge royal power, resulting in a battle at Radcot Bridge, where